


How to Win at Deep-Space Strip Poker

by ShiroiKabocha



Category: Firefly
Genre: Clothing Kink, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiroiKabocha/pseuds/ShiroiKabocha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Simon gets naked, Kaylee gets lucky, and River hates telepathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Win at Deep-Space Strip Poker

You offered it as a joke-- to "lose your shirt" gambling, a humorous affirmation of your status as the easiest mark at the table. But when the suggestion made Kaylee giggle, you kept going. Wash applauded as you undid the buttons at your collar. Zoe and Inara collapsed into one another in laughter as you pulled your arms out of the sleeves. Jayne snorted and folded his arms when you tossed the crumpled silk dress shirt on to the heap of chores, bank notes, and chocolate bars. The shepherd played along as you defended the value of such a shirt against the more common treasures risked in deep-space poker games. And when you linked your hands behind your head and leaned back in your chair, totally broke and newly shirtless, Kaylee blushed. That's when you knew the joke had been worth it.

When you and River first shipped out with Serenity, you thought your best chance of fitting in would be to act tough. You tried cursing, spitting, intentionally foregoing certain rituals of personal hygiene--anything to make you seem a little rougher around the edges, and less like the lightweight city slicker they all took you to be. It didn't go well. Your attempts to emulate a battle-hardened space pirate just brought your laughable inexperience into sharper focus. But over the last few months, you've worked out a new way to relate to the crew despite your privileged upbringing: embrace the stereotype. Play the part of the pretty boy, show them that you know just how absurd it is for someone like you to be part of a crew like this. When Jayne takes shots at you for smelling like lavender (it's the kind of soap River likes, and the smell calms her down during her fits, so you look for it whenever Serenity docks at a spaceport with a decent marketplace) you laugh with him instead of taking offense. You no longer choke down the hard liquor that the rest of the crew prefers; instead, you share a bottle of wine with Inara and toast the benevolence of the mighty Alliance as they hunt down your sister for a second chance to slice up her brain. And it works. The more you make fun of yourself, the less they make fun of you. The rest of the crew has always respected your skill as a doctor, but lately, they seem to like you more, too. You feel welcome at the poker games where you used to feel merely tolerated. And that's why a stunt like losing your shirt is so vital to maintaining this hard-won camaraderie: you never want the captain to threaten you or River with abandonment again. You _need_ to be a part of this crew.

But the faint blush that blooms on Kaylee’s cheeks as she lowers her eyes… that stirs something in you that’s a little surprising. For the first time in a long time, you feel something that’s a little less need, and a little more… _want._

\- - - - -

Well, you certainly didn’t expect THAT. And by _that_ , you’re almost certain you mean the fact that Simon stripped down in the middle of the crew’s semi-regular poker game and tossed his shirt on the table when he ran out of money. Of course, your subsequent winning streak is equally surprising, given your past performance—poker doesn’t favor the honest, and bless your little grease-stained heart, deception has never been your strong suit. You almost passed on the invite this time. Another evening losing hand after poorly-concealed hand and enduring both Jayne’s jabs and Wash’s equally unwelcome “tips?” No thanks. It was Inara’s presence at the poker table convinced you to stay. She never joins in at poker night! Lately, she’s been so withdrawn that you barely see her at all, even when you’re both crammed into the same tiny spaceship for weeks at a time. So if it meant getting to spend time with Inara, you’d deal with Wash and Jayne and the probable outcome of doing twice your share of chores for a couple days. Simon’s surprise striptease was just icing on the protein-based birthday cake.

Now, your reaction to Simon’s nakedness isn’t at all unexpected, but maybe your mad scramble for his discarded shirt is. If Kaywinnet Lee Frye is winning at poker, you know more credit’s due to Lady Luck than anybody else, but the length of your lucky streak is definitely starting to push the limits of credibility. You’ve been in the hole most of the night and house rules say you have to work off accumulated chores before you get to claim anything from the pot, and you have a lot—a _lot_ —of septic vac cleanouts to work off, but each hand brings you a little bit closer to that blue silk shirt. Or is it more of a purple? You can’t decide. Maybe it’s one of those fabrics that looks two different colors depending on how the light hits it, or even one of those really fancy ones you’ve heard about that changes hues with the wearer’s skin temperature. Oh, now there’s a thought that makes you shiver.

And now, that’s really the unexpected thing, all the… the _shivers_ that boy gives you! It’s something you’ve been wanting to talk to Inara about, but she just will not come out of that damn shuttle and you obviously can’t talk about it with anyone else. It’s not that you fancy him, that’s obvious and you’ve been crushing all over the good doctor from the moment he set foot on ship. That’s normal. You know crushes. Or, you’re pretty sure you know crushes. You know about flirting, and you know about fucking, and you know everything there is to know about how Simon makes you feel physically. Mostly.

The only thing you don’t know is why you feel like you’re going to shiver yourself to _death_ if you don’t get your hands on that shirt damn soon. There’s three fives in your hand, and a four and a six, but they’re not all the same suit—is that good? Or possible? It suddenly occurs to you that you might be cheating.

Simon leans against one arm of his chair, creasing his brow as he picks a card from the center of his hand and replaces it to the left of its original position. He bites his lip.

Wow. Okay.

You cross your legs and go all in.

\- - - - -

“Congratulations!” You might be smiling too much. Your arms are pinned to your sides and your hands are stuffed in your pockets, and it’s reasonable (but by no means certain) that the temperature is what’s making you shake so much. The hallway is considerably colder than the kitchen, probably because it’s not packed with warm bodies, and also because there’s nothing but a couple inches of steel and some tattered, decades-old insulation separating your exposed flesh from the void of space and damn, why did you have to think about space? Now you’re picturing the effects of explosive decompression on the human body and it’s making your throat close up, which is disastrous, because you think Kaylee just asked you a question. 

“Do you want it back?” Kaylee frowns nervously and wrings her hands. “I didn’t mean to win it, I swear, and I know it must be real expensive, and you just look so cold like that—“

“Oh, oh no, not at all,” you reply too quickly, your words blundering into Kaylee’s. “You won it fair and square. It’s yours.” Kaylee’s fingers knead the hem of your shirt. It comes down to her mid-thigh, open and untucked. The shoulders sit a little baggy, but the material hugs just close enough at the chest and flares with a casual elegance below her—er, well, below her chest. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows as soon as she put it on, and even though the wrinkles can’t be good for the sleeves, you think you would have been sorely disappointed had she buttoned them at the wrists. “In fact, um.” Has Kaylee always had those four freckles on her arm? “It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

She looks down and smiles, and there’s that blush again. “Really? You mean it?” 

“Absolutely.” You shift your weight. “Anyway, um, it’s late, and I should really—“

“Oh gosh, yes, I need to get to bed, and you must be freezing—“

“I’m not, really, it’s not that cold—“

“That’s my fault, Serenity’s environmental controls are shot to shit and I haven’t had a chance—“

“It’s no problem at all, I’m not cold—“

“I’m gonna fix it as soon as we get to port, I promise—“

“You don’t have to promise anything, really, I’m fine—“

“Well goodnight!”

“Goodnight!”

The image of Kaylee wearing your shirt follows you all the way back to the passenger dorms. Kaylee wearing your shirt, and that blush. And maybe some engine grease. And not much else. You walk faster as you picture her yawning and stretching her arms over her head, violet silk shifting to reveal the curve of—

You slam the sliding door shut and shove your back against it. There are two burning questions on your mind as you thrust your hand down your pants. One: how long have you got before River gets back? And two—

You bite down on your free hand to stifle a moan. Two: _Where else does Kaylee have freckles?_

\- - - - -

Nope. Not stopping by Inara’s shuttle; those plans are cancelled. You’ll hash out your Simon-feelings with Inara some other time. Have a good long talk over some fancy tea. But these feelings? Right now? These aren’t _talking_ feelings. These are “head straight for your bunk and lock the door” feelings.

You must have seen Simon shirtless some time before now, right? It’s a small ship, and with nine people squeezed in tight, it feels like you’re all constantly in each other’s business. You know you’ve seen Jayne naked more often than you’d like to. And that one time—how did Wash’s boxers even get in the engine room? You drop down the ladder to your bunk and bolt the door behind you. Ugh, why are you letting the image of _Wash’s boxers_ of all things crowd out shirtless Simon?

You close your eyes and summon up the image again, slipping into bed but not out of your new favorite shirt. That _smell_ —is it some kinda flower? There’s a little heady musk underneath it; not a lot, just a hint, enough to remind you you’re wrapped in somebody else’s property. That makes you think about being wrapped in Simon’s arms, all pressed up against that lean, clean body of his. You hope that flowery scent tastes as good as it smells, 'cause you haven't seen an inch of Simon yet that you don't wanna lick.

How does Simon manage to be so damn composed all the time, even half-naked in a freezing service hallway? The picture of a perfect gentleman, complimenting your looks even when you stole the shirt off his back. You don’t even remember what you said to him, you were so busy running your eyes over those shoulders, thinking about sliding them out of that shirt and then letting your hands keep right on going. He’s always so put-together, and you can’t help it if you just wanna take him _apart!_

You consider reaching for the buzzer in your bedside drawer, but you don’t. You wanna take it nice and slow tonight. Besides, you bet the good doctor’s got _great_ hands.

\- - - - -

“Poker night cleanup” is always the last chore on the pile, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t usually lose intentionally. It’s the responsibility of a shepherd to make himself useful to those around him. There’s only so much spiritual guidance you can offer your spacefaring companions, and cooking has never been a strength of yours, so cleanup duty it is. There’s a meditative quality to restoring order after a boisterous evening among friends; you don’t mind taking on this chore in the slightest.

As you gather up half-empty glasses, there’s a thump from under the kitchen table. You lean closer and hear mumbling. Peering underneath, you see the doctor’s sister, curled up with her knees to her chest, face buried in her hair, quietly thudding her head against the table leg.

“River?” You crouch down and reach out to her. “What’s the matter?” She only grumbles. “Are you all right? Why aren’t you in bed?”

River glares. “I’m hiding from the sexual tension,” she declares, and resumes banging her head.

“Oh. Well.” All things considered, it’s not the strangest thing she’s ever said. You give her a pat on the shoulder and a sympathetic smile. “Aren’t we all.”


End file.
